Saorsa
by il-bambino
Summary: Ibormeith, a forest-dweller, wants only to protect her family and her country, but a chance encounter could lead to her forsaking both.
1. The Circle

AN: The names I have chosen are from a mixture of Gaelic, Celtic and Elvish origins. Therefore some of the names are not pronounced phonetically.

_Bébhinn – BEH-vehn_

_Éibhir – Ey-VEER_

_Isibéal – Ish-a-bEYl_

* * *

Ibormeith woke suddenly from a pale dream. A light sheen of sweat covered her skin; she sat up and pushed off the linen sheet that covered her. The calm breeze floating in through the woven walls of the yurt cooled her warm body and stirred her red hair. Stretching, Ibormeith stood up slowly and looked over to her sister's sleeping form; the young girl lay spread-eagled on the floor, a blanket half-tangled around her legs. She smiled down at her sister before pushing aside a drape and stepping out of the yurt and into the early-morning light.

The skeleton of a fire lay smoking gently in the centre of a ring of ten yurts. Beyond the shelters, the trees rose solidly like a wall suspended from the sky; the birds would see a perfect circle of pine-needle-littered ground surrounded by a mass of green forest. The thickset trunks that surrounded Ibormeith comforted her, and the darkness that lay between them stirred a longing inside her very bones. The forest was her home, and she was not afraid of the shadows and life that the trees concealed.

Staring up towards the sky, Ibormeith considered the faint light that fell through the air and, like mist, coated the trees' branches; she judged by the intensity of the sky's hue that dawn had only just departed. Turning back to the fire pit, Ibormeith threw a few more logs on and stirred up the last few tentative sparks that rested, half-hidden, at the bottom of the pit. Soon, the charcoal crumbled and the new logs began to burn nicely.

Ibormeith collected more logs from the store and laid them beside the fire before returning to her yurt and retrieving her blanket. With the warm earth tender beneath her bare feet, she left the circle of shelters and entered the forest.

She walked for a few minutes, until soon the dirt beneath her feet gave way to smooth grey rock and then to water. It rose over her toes and shocked her with its bitter sting. Untying her vest, she dropped the shapeless piece of leather onto the nearest rock alongside her blanket, and continued to undress. Then, stepping out of her leather breeches and belt, she slid one foot further into the water. Ibormeith felt with her toes, trying to find the ledge that indicated where the bank ended. Taking a deep breath against the cold, she sat down on the ledge and let her legs float before her, just under the surface. Then, slowly, she slithered into the water, submerging her entire body. Ripples extended outwards towards the water's edge; reflections of the weak sunlight danced over the underside of rocks and leaves at the bank. Dirt and sweat ran off her skin and swirled in the water around her.

Ibormeith lay back in the water, and allowed her red hair to drift in the current. The cold crept into her flesh and she welcomed it; nature was beautiful, in all its forms, and she should be lucky to be able to appreciate it. She closed her eyes and listened to the day-forest awake. The birds slowly began to chatter high up in the branches; at ground level, the sniffs and grunts of deer indicated the beginning of the mating season. Then a twig snapped and Ibormeith ducked beneath the surface of the water. There was no way she could reach her knife before whoever was out there could reach _her. _

Even as she debated what to do, holding her breath beneath the water, more noise came; the crushing of leaves beneath heavy feet, rock striking rock, and then an almighty splash as the intruder dived headfirst into the river.

Ibormeith found herself thrust against the rock ledge as the water surged and swelled around her. Casting a quick glance over the clothes and weapon that had appeared beside her own things, she realised she was in no danger. It was her brother's hatchet that lay half hidden in the grass.

Alaster's head broke the surface of the water and he gasped, shaking his hair from his eyes. As soon as he had cleared his vision, Ibormeith flicked a handful of water straight into his face. Laughing, her brother returned the favour and a fight ensued, the air suddenly full of childish shouts and the sound of water.

Soon Alaster had had enough, however, and he held up his hands in a signal of peace.

'Truce?' he offered.

Ibormeith nodded and grinned.

'Is anyone else awake?' she asked, swimming back towards the bank. She hauled herself out and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, then sat cross-legged beside the water.

'Father has already left to hunt – he has taken Meilochon with him. Kolbrún is awake and cooking, and Màire insists on helping, despite her state.'

Alaster referred to the newest _Ema_ in the circle – a mother-to-be. Màire would soon birth her child, who would be celebrated as the first child born in that year. Ibormeith herself would be honoured with being present during the birth; as the next expected _Ema, _she would be given fertile blood to drink and shown the pain and beauty of life.

Ibormeith was excited about the birthing, but also anxious. What if the baby was born blue, and did not breathe? Not only would their circle grow smaller, but the death would cast a shadow over her own future. A lifeless child was inauspicious for anyonewho oversaw the birth – should Màire's child die, the omen might pass through Ibormeith and cause her own children to be born lifeless and pale, or worse. Weak or stunted children – born to any woman, be it the lowest _Ema _or the chief's wife – were cast out of the circle and left to nature's will.

'Are you alright, little sister?' Alaster asked, his brows caught together in a frown.

Ibormeith smiled apologetically. 'I'm fine, brother. Just thinking, that's all.'

As Alaster continued to bathe and cleanse his body, Ibormeith dried herself and redressed in her simple leather clothes. Her hair still wet, she braided it and tied it into a loose knot at the back of her head. She watched Alaster swimming and gazed in trepidation at the blue Uroborus around his bicep that showed the perpetual cyclic renewal of life. The tattoo signalled that Alaster was the circle's chosen son. When the current Magus Urúvion died, Alaster would ascend to his position. Until then, Urúvion tutored him in the knowledge of the stars and of the future. Ibormeith was afraid for her brother, as the things Urúvion knew were dangerous and incredible in equal measure. To know the future – was it always a gift?

'Thinking again, sister?' Alaster grinned and jumped onto the bank beside her.

Ibormeith scowled as he shook his head like a dog, and cowered away from him to avoid being drenched.

'Hurry yourself, Alaster,' she replied. 'I'm hungry.'

Together they walked back to the circle of yurts, taking a slight detour to check the traps Ibormeith had lain the previous day. The siblings returned to the clearing, both holding a brace of pheasant in each hand, to find the whole circle awake and readying themselves for first meal.

There were seven families in the circle, and each occupied a yurt. Both the chief and the Magus inhabited their own yurt; the tenth was for storage. As Ibormeith and Alaster entered the circle, children from four of the seven families came to them, clamouring for the birds. They took them to a woman beside the fire, who was bent over a large metal pot, stolen during a raid on the Romans' wagons. The contents were of dubious origins, but with the pheasant meat, the stew would be plenty edible.

Ibormeith pushed aside the covering to her yurt and entered the dim interior. Inside, her sister Bébhinn was sat on her bedroll, a horn of water in her hand, clearly just awoken. Hanging her damp blankets on a rail to dry them out, Ibormeith bent over her own cot and tidied the sheets.

'Sleep well, sister?' she asked.

Bébhinn yawned in reply and drank deeply from the hollowed goat-horn, rubbing her face with dirty fingers.

'You need to wash,' continued Ibormeith. 'Why don't you go to the river before first meal – I'm sure Kolbrún would appreciate you taking the other children.'

At thirteen years old, Bébhinn was the eldest of the children. She disliked being 'in charge' of the youngsters, as they were not in any way meek or obliging.

Girls became adult at fourteen, and boys at sixteen. Half the circle's population were children – there were nearly seventeen of the rowdy, confident youngsters. Like Ibormeith and everyone else in their circle, all they had known was the forest. By the age of three, all of them could swim, climb and defend themselves with sharp bites from their milky teeth. And as they grew, they only became more wild and unruly. Boldness was a trait common within their little 'tribe'; they would band together and purposefully irritate and bother the adults. But they were not to be blamed, or faulted. Having that self-assured attitude was the only way to survive – fear and hesitancy were a forest-dweller's worst nightmare.

'I'm not one of them anymore, Ibormeith,' Bébhinn grimaced.

'Yes you are,' Ibormeith replied swiftly. 'And for another seventeen days, no less.'

'But –'

'No buts, Bébhinn. You are a child and you will do as I say. No matter how close your adulthood is.'

Bébhinn scowled and glared at her sister half-heartedly. She knew Ibormeith was right – they were the laws of their circle. But soon, she would be an adult, and then she wouldn't have to obey, and she could leave the circle if she wanted to. Suddenly, realising what she had just thought, Bébhinn looked around anxiously. Those sorts of ideas were profanation, and if any of the adults heard her utter them, she would be subjected to – who knew what?

Cain, a mute boy of about seven, thrust his head through the entrance and grinned at Ibormeith. He gestured with his hands, miming eating and beckoning her outside.

'Come, Bébhinn – first meal is ready,' Ibormeith deciphered the boy's signals.

'No time to wash, then?' asked Bébhinn hopefully, before climbing up and leaving the yurt with her sister.

'You can go after first meal – I'm sure the river isn't going to run away.'

They found seats amongst the other families and waited as the stew was served into stolen crockery and passed around. Once every man, woman and child held a bowl, the circle whispered thanks to Eachna, the goddess-in-earth, and tucked in.

An idle chatter started from the children, and soon the whole group was in conversation. The hunters talked of game; deer season had begun, so meat would be plentiful. Ibormeith listened to their words and reminded herself that she would need to alter her traps to save them from getting trampled by the ungainly fawns that would soon be capering all through the forest.

Soon, Ibormeith's father, Éibhir, returned with a huge deer slung over his shoulder, and shortly after, Meilochon came back, the arrows in his quiver sticky with blood, with four pigeons hanging from each hand.

'A great haul,' Urúvion spoke over the chatter of the children. 'Éibhir, the deer should be kept for a later time.'

The Magus' voice echoed with such knowledge and assurance that Éibhir did exactly as the old man said. Ibormeith saw her brother nodding. What did he and the Magus know that the circle did not? The meat would not keep so long – a few days, if that. What would occur in the next few days that meant the deer was needed more then than it was now?

Shutting her eyes tightly, Ibormeith shook the questions from her mind. They were not hers to ask.

With the meal over, the children disappeared into the forest. Bébhinn helped to pile all the dirty bowls into a wicker basket in the hope that she could escape quietly without having to wash, but Ibormeith caught her at it and sent her straight to the river. She went – reluctantly.

_Stubborn child, _Ibormeith scolded her sister silently. _Too much like her mother. _

'Daughter,' came a voice from behind her. Ibormeith turned and dipped her head respectfully to her father and chief.

'Father. Have you eaten?'

Éibhir sat cross-legged beside the fire pit and accepted a bowl of pheasant stew from his eldest daughter, nodding his appreciation.

'How is your sister?' Éibhir asked, his beard catching the stew that dripped from his lower lip.

'Headstrong and wilful, father, as ever. Bébhinn believes she is no longer a child. I remind her that she has half a moon before she enters adulthood.'

Éibhir frowned gently, but his lips curved into a faint smile.

'Let the child have her arrogance and naïveté, Ibormeith,' he instructed. 'She must soon learn to lay them both aside and take up the mantle of responsibility, as you have done.'

Ibormeith looked at the ground. 'I wish only to make you proud, father.'

Éibhir took her hand in his own and squeezed it slightly. Their eyes met. Éibhir suddenly looked saddened. Then the look was gone and he nodded and let her hand drop.

'You will, my daughter. You will.'

* * *

As the light began to fade from the sky, the forest came alive again. The first owls were heard and the foxes came out with their kits, their barks echoing for miles through the trees. Soon the stars became visible, and the moon rose high to cast a thin light over the highest of the branches.

Through this black-and-white world, Ibormeith ran, her bare feet silent on the damp earth. A coil of rope and a bow slung over her back, a quiver of newly fletched arrows at her waist, she sprinted through the trees, her eyes well adjusted to the moonlit world. Soon, the forest began to thin, and suddenly Ibormeith was out of their boundary, racing across a wide-open field. The Wall was before her.

Ibormeith slowed to a walk, breathing deeply. She stared up at the expanse of grey stone, rising twenty feet into the air, topped with a crenelated parapet. The sheer vastness of the man-made atrocity fuelled the hatred inside her that she already felt towards the Romans. They had come to her island and destroyed it with their stone blocks and sharp spears. They had no right to take her country.

Of course the Romans had been there for her entire life, but the story of the builder had been passed down through the generations of her circle. It had been three centuries since the builder had cut the island in two with his Wall. The story told of how the builder dreamt that Rome drowned in the blood of the people it had killed; the builder saw his Rome die and could not stand it. He built a wall so that the blood of Rome's enemies could not wash his home away, as it would be curbed by the stone and pushed into the sea. But in doing so – in cutting Eachna's land in half – the builder had incurred her wrath, and she had promised to never let her children stop fighting, so that their blood would become to much for the Wall, and the force of it would break it down. Eachna too had seen the builder's dream, and knew that it would one day become a reality.

Ibormeith knew this to be the truth. And she would have her part in the realisation of Eachna's will.

She pulled her knife from her belt and drew the blade across the tip of her finger. Warmth trickled down into her palm. Then she smeared her blood onto the Wall and whispered Eachna's prayer, and sucked her finger to help seal the cut.

Ibormeith had done her part. In her blood was Eachna's spirit, and the spirits of her children. Soon the Wall would crumble under the weight of Eachna's fury, and Rome would drown.

Smiling to herself, Ibormeith turned back towards the forest and regarded her home. A sudden pride burst into life inside her chest. The dense greenness of the trees before her, half doused in pale moonlight, inspired a great humility and excitement in her. It was Eachna's world – it was Ibormeith's home. She had been gifted with this life by the goddess-in-earth herself; how could she not be proud?

Suddenly a sound above her made Ibormeith jump. Instinctively, she crouched down and minimised the size of her body. She was in the centre of a field – nowhere to hide.

The sound came again – a birdcall. Ibormeith frowned as she recognised the cry. _Hawks don't fly at night, _she thought, searching the sky for the bird.

At first she couldn't see a thing, but then out of nowhere, a chestnut-feathered hawk swooped across her vision, screeching. The white feathers at its tail made it easily visible in the dim light. Ibormeith traced its flight in awe; watching it hover and drop abruptly into the wild grass, then rise again a moment later, a small rabbit clutched in its talons. She laughed as the hawk coasted the damp breeze, soaring up to the Wall.

Then Ibormeith choked on her laughter. A man stood atop the Wall, his arm out to allow the Hawk to land. He stared down at her, his eyes glinting in the bright orange light of a torch. Ibormeith gaped for a few seconds before, in one smooth movement, pulling her bow over her shoulder and notching an arrow. She pulled the string to her ear, but halted when the man made no move to hide or protect himself.

They stood like statues, their eyes locked. One pair dark green, the other golden-brown.

The Ibormeith lowered her bow, turned on her heel and dashed to the treeline. Once there, she spared one look back before darting into the forest.

Whoever it was had disappeared.

Ibormeith continued back to the clearing, her thoughts full of the man stood on the Wall. Why hadn't she killed him? For all she knew, he could have been Roman. But no, what was she thinking? The soldiers wore red and the nobles dresses – the stranger on the Wall wore a thick leather jerkin with a high collar, and his hair was long and dirty. No Roman soldier, or noble, for that matter, would allow their hair to grow past their ears. It was considered 'unclean' for them. So who was he?

Once back in the circle of yurts, Ibormeith huddled inside her blankets by the dwindling fire. Cain sat beside her for a while, until his shivering began to annoy her and she invited him to sit in her lap. He climbed onto her and curled up like a domesticated cat might. Ibormeith enveloped him in her blanket and he soon fell asleep.

Staring into the red embers of the fire, warmed by the body in her lap, Ibormeith lost herself in her thoughts. She thought of her mother, the quick-tempered daughter of the last chief, now living in the earth with Eachna, peaceful at last. Ibormeith had been six when Isibéal had died in childbirth with her younger sister. For a long time, she had hated the squalling ball of pink flesh that had killed her mother; but then Urúvion had taken Ibormeith to Isibéal's burial place and shown her the flowers that grew there. Urúvion had plucked a flower from the loose dirt and handed it to her.

'Isibéal's spirit is in this flower now,' he had told her. 'And in the trees, in the air, and most of all, young Ibormeith, her spirit is in you.'

From that moment on, Ibormeith had known that her mother was happy, hand in hand beneath the earth with Eachna, and the rest of Eachna's children.

Ibormeith smiled as she remembered the old man's solemnity, and wisdom. He had not changed since that day. But she had. She was a woman now, tall and strong, with Eachna's spirit inside her waiting to be formed into children.

Gently, Ibormeith placed her hands on Cain's head and stroked his soft hair. _Is this what it feels like to have children?_ she wondered. _To be warm and satisfied, to feel a great bond like that of flowers to earth? _

Cain snuffled in his sleep and Ibormeith smiled contentedly. She picked the boy up and carried him to her yurt, placing him softly onto her bedroll. Lying down beside him, she drew the blanket over both of them and took Cain into her arms. He clung to her and dug his head into the hollow of her shoulder.

Like this, they slept.


	2. Eachna's Mark

Ibormeith was south of the Wall for the third time in her life. She gazed at her land from the higher branches of an Oak tree, waiting for night to fall. The land was green and lush; fields of wheat and oat swayed in the cool breeze and grasses stretched as far as the eye could see. Pearly clouds drifted across a cerulean sky, and the air was full of the sweet scent of recent rainfall.

Ibormeith turned her eyes to the Roman fort that crouched against the Wall; it was all hard stone and sharp corners, red tiled roofs and metal gates. There was nothing of Eachna's in that stone tomb. For that's what it was – a tomb. No earth was there, and no life.

She thought of what she was planning – going in to that very place. The thought sent a shiver through her. Eachna could not protect Ibormeith there; if she died, she died alone. But she would not die. She wanted only to see the stranger-on-the-Wall again. She could hide in shadows and watch. After all, she had spent most of her life doing those two things.

As night descended over the Wall and the fort beside it, the whole place erupted in a bright orange light. Hundreds of torches all along the Wall were lit, reflecting off the river that ran parallel to the stones, bathing the entire structure in a peachy glow.

Silently, Ibormeith climbed down from her perch and dropped stealthily onto the ground. She ran the few hundred metres to the fort and stuck herself to the wall. The gates were open and unguarded – she took a deep breath, and slipped through. The fort was quite still at the outskirts, but as Ibormeith paced the wide, dusty streets, the noise began to grow. She could hear many voices, and music. Ibormeith came to the main road that cut straight through the fort, and crossed it quickly to hide in the shadows beside a large stone building that smelled of horses. Gazing round, she located the main source of noise. Candles, torches and an open brazier brightly lit a square, its far end and sides roofed by red tile. A water-trough sunk into the floor cut the square in two. Men sat around tables and stood at a counter under one of the roofs, where amphorae of wine were stacked on wooden shelves. Almost every man wore the red cloak and metal armour of a soldier of Rome, but a few were the fort's civilian inhabitants – they wore simple jerkins and tunics.

Ibormeith allowed her gaze to wander over the square. Everybody seemed to be drinking wine, either from clay beakers or from pitchers. Two Roman soldiers were playing some sort of dice game; as Ibormeith watched, one of them won and collected a large pile of coins, grinning.

In the far corner, two men were throwing knives at a chair. One had a mass of dark blonde hair, loosely tied at the nape of his neck; the other was raven-haired, the curls falling down to his bearded chin. Behind them, three other men sat at a table. None of them wore the clothes of soldiers, but they all dressed similarly to one another – dark leather breeches and jerkins with tooled detail on the front. They were not civilian – that much was clear from the array of weapons with which they were armed, and from their ability to wield them.

The raven-haired man threw his knife at the chair – a poor shot. The others jeered and laughed at him. Then another knife came flying out of nowhere, and suddenly it had buried itself the hilt of the other blade with a loud thud. Ibormeith traced the knife's trajectory and saw a sixth man stood in shadow. He leant forwards to grin at the raven-haired man and his face was revealed. Ibormeith gasped. Golden-brown eyes flared behind a mess of dirty brown hair. It was the stranger-on-the-Wall.

Ibormeith gazed at him with a childlike wonder and, before she knew what she was doing, stepped out of the shadows towards the square. She wanted to be closer to him. As she watched, the stranger-on-the-Wall retrieved his knife and began to slice up an apple. He smiled again. But this smile was different – cruel and harsh. It was a smile that promised blood.

And then he looked at her. Their eyes met.

Ibormeith gasped again and jumped back into the darkness, then turned and fled. Flying through the streets, she scolded herself angrily. _Foolish girl! What were you thinking?_

The road turned suddenly. Ibormeith threw herself round the corner and stopped dead. The stranger-on-the-Wall was stood right in front of her. Before she could draw her dagger, he thrust her against the wall, his own blade at her throat.

'What do you want?' he demanded hoarsely, his voice gruff and heavily accented.

Ibormeith stared at him over his knife in disbelief – he had spoken in her language. How did he know her tongue? Her heart racing, she clenched her jaw and tightened her fist around the hilt of her own knife.

'I didn't kill _you_,' she said breathlessly.

The stranger-on-the-Wall hesitated, his golden eyes flashing in the light.

Ibormeith took advantage of his indecision, pushing his dagger from her neck with one hand and ramming her knee into his groin. The stranger-on-the-Wall fell backwards into the dirt, letting loose an angry curse. Ibormeith leaped over his body and shot out of the gate. She didn't stop running until she had reached the treeline, a good three hundred metres away.

Then, surrounded by the quiet rustling of the trees, she stared down at her hand. Clenched in her fist was the stranger-on-the-Wall's knife. The blade was thick and well treated, its edge clean and sharp. Ibormeith stuck the dagger through her belt and grinned. The fear was gone and adrenaline had taken over.

Whooping with laughter, Ibormeith headed back to the circle. She could feel Eachna's spirit all around her, and inside her, stronger than ever before. Her skin prickled all over and her fingers trembled with the intensity of it. And she had felt it in the stranger-on-the-Wall too – he was brimming with Eachna's gift. She had shown Ibormeith the truth. The stranger-on-the-Wall was no invader, come to take her home. He was here to rescue it.

* * *

The first thing Meilochon asked when he saw Ibormeith the following day was where she had got her new knife. She replied with indifference, avoiding his gaze, spinning a tale of a broken wagon south of the Wall. Meilochon raised his eyebrows and smirked, but let the matter drop.

Meilochon and Ibormeith were of age – their mothers had been _Ema _together and had birthed their children within three days of one another. Ibormeith was the elder of the two, but Meilochon often adopted airs around her that would make anyone assume that he was older.

Ibormeith knew that soon, Meilochon would ask her father to allow them to join. She had mixed feelings about this prospect. Fear was one, anxiety another; reluctance, anticipation, curiosity and uncertainty also. Ibormeith wanted to make her father proud, and knew that he would approve of Meilochon as a companion. Therefore she was happy to spend time in Meilochon's company, but the moment he started to act superior to her, she would simply leave.

Ibormeith was not one for confrontation. She enjoyed arguing on worthwhile topics; her conversations with Urúvion were always valuable and interesting. However, Meilochon always managed to find the smallest things to fault, such as her behaviour around the children of the circle, and the amount of time she spent alone in the forest. Whenever he tried to argue with her on these matters, Ibormeith would become irritated and stubborn, and either ignore him or disappear. She knew he found this trying, but she would rather displease her future companion slightly than enrage him by arguing.

'Ibormeith, may we speak?'

Ibormeith was fletching arrows with pheasant feathers when Urúvion approached her. She invited him to sit beside her and fetched him a horn of water. The Magus settled himself and folded his hands in his lap.

Ibormeith regarded him closely. He was the oldest man she had seen in her life, even when the circles in the forest came together for Magi meetings. The other circles' Magi were old too, but closer in age to Ibormeith's father. The other circles had a slightly different lifestyle to theirs – they focussed on provision for the self. In Ibormeith's circle, the inhabitants were much more intimate with each other, with the hunters providing for everyone – young and old included. Because of this, many other circles had a more limited age range. Ibormeith regarded her circle's way of life as healthier and more advanced, and felt that it was more honourable: Eachna would not want her children dying from lack of food whilst others ate before them.

'I have heard stories of your new possession,' Urúvion continued. 'May I see the blade?'

Ibormeith handed the stranger-on-the-Wall's knife to Urúvion with only a grain of reluctance. The Magus held it in his hands gently, running his fingers over the cold metal.

'A beautiful find, Ibormeith. I must congratulate you.'

'Thank you, Urúvion,' Ibormeith replied, guilt stealing into her voice.

Urúvion heard it, and turned to her. He stared into her eyes for a long while, still holding the dagger. Then he handed it back and nodded knowingly.

'You did not find this south of the Wall,' he stated. But his voice was not disapproving. Instead, curiosity and enthusiasm were hidden there.

'I did, Magus, but not in the way I told Meilochon.'

'Tell me of how you came by this blade.'

Ibormeith explained to him of the stranger-on-the-Wall, and how she had felt Eachna's spirit inside him when they had touched in the Roman fort. She assured Urúvion that she had been in no danger of dying beyond Eachna's protection, and told him of her wish to see the stranger-on-the-Wall again.

Urúvion listened to her speak, and nodded when she had finished. They sat in silence for a few moments.

'You believe this man has borne Eachna?' he asked finally.

Ibormeith nodded ardently, her eyes wide.

'If what you believe is true, the man will bear her mark.'

'Magus, may I be granted permission to find him again, and prove to you that he is one of Eachna's children?'

Urúvion raised his eyebrows, and laughed gently.

'You didn't have my permission the first time you entered that place,' he said, smiling. 'Why would you need it now?'

Ibormeith blushed, shamed by his integrity. Urúvion smiled and laid his fingers on her cheek lightly. Then he left her.

An uncontainable excitement whirled inside Ibormeith's stomach; she was to see the stranger-on-the-Wall again, and maybe even converse with him. Her hands shook slightly, and she could not stop a smile curling her lips. To be that close to Eachna again – it would be exhilarating.

Delighted, Ibormeith swept a swathe of dishevelled hair over her shoulder, picked up her arrows and turned towards her yurt. Once inside, she placed the arrows with her bow and lit a candle to dispel the shadows.

The inside of the yurt was a round space, its floor made up of woven rush matting, with a low ceiling from which hung dried flowers and herbs. At waist height all around the wall of the shelter, a wooden rail ran; blankets, clothes and animal furs were draped over it, and at the back of the yurt, two swords and Ibormeith's bow rested in niches cut into the wood.

Ibormeith was tidying hers and Bébhinn's bedrolls when a noise at the entrance made her turn around. Éibhir was stood there, framed against the doorway, his chest bare. Blue marks curved over his ribcage and chest bone: spirals, triangular and circular shapes and, in the centre of his torso, a large blue fish. Eachna's mark.

'May I come in?' Éibhir asked.

'Of course, father, make yourself comfortable.'

Éibhir sat down on the rush matting and made space for Ibormeith beside him.

'I have news, daughter,' Éibhir began, 'of Meilochon. He has requested my permission to join with you after Màire's birthing.'

Ibormeith nodded hesitantly. She had known it was coming – but so soon?

'Of course I accept, father, if that is what you wish,' she mumbled.

'I would have hoped that you make your own decision in this matter, Ibormeith,' Éibhir stated, his tone dissatisfied.

Ibormeith was shocked. Had she let her father down? She had thought he wanted her to join with Meilochon; did he have another in mind?

'Father, if I have disappointed you in my answer then I will change it at once,' she amended.

Éibhir took her hand and smiled, but his face was weary.

'Meilochon will be a good partner, daughter. But I only think of you – will you be happy with him as your companion?'

Ibormeith thought for a few moments before answering. 'I believe I could be, father. But Eachna will gift me with children, I know it.'

'Then let it be known, daughter,' Éibhir commanded proudly. 'You and Meilochon will be joined under the first full moon after Màire's birthing.'

He went, leaving Ibormeith alone in her yurt. _Soon it will no longer be mine_, she thought sadly. _Soon it will be Meilochon's. _But that was not true, and Ibormeith knew it. Joined partners shared everything; the yurt would be _theirs,_ not his or hers. She suddenly wondered where Bébhinn would sleep on the night of her joining with Meilochon – in Éibhir's yurt? Yes, that would be appropriate.

Ibormeith lay down on her bedroll and stared at the ceiling, twisting her hair between her fingers. She remembered Màire's joining, and how the woman had plaited her hair for the ceremony. Ibormeith half-heartedly started to braid her own hair, but grew tired and lay down again. She wondered what the circle would say to her at the joining, as she had to sit and talk with those who wanted her to. Would they be glad for her? Offer her advice?

She was still lying there when Bébhinn came in to sleep.

'Is it true, sister?' the younger girl asked. 'Are you and Meilochon to be joined?'

Ibormeith sat up and allowed herself a smile. 'We are,' she assented. 'After Màire has birthed her child.'

Bébhinn grinned and threw herself down beside her sister. They embraced and Bébhinn kissed Ibormeith's cheek.

'You shall be happy!' Bébhinn announced.

'Yes,' Ibormeith replied. 'I suppose I shall be.'

* * *

It was midnight, and Tristan climbed the steps to the Wall slowly. He needed to think; he needed to clear his head. Things were beginning to get the best of him – he needed a few hours to sit and entertain the thoughts that needed to be thought.

In the light of the torch Tristan carried, his face seemed to emanate a pale orange glow. The tattoos on his cheeks stood out, stark against the peachy hue of his skin, and his eyes, barely concealed behind thick lashes, shone a golden brown. A dark beard, dusted with paler hairs, covered his jaw, and his hair came nearly to his shoulders – a messy tangle of dirty brown hair, some of it braided and secured with strips of leather.

The last time he had been on the Wall, Tristan had seen a young Woad woman break the cover of the trees and come towards him. She had disappeared in the shadow of the Wall and reappeared only a moment later. Heading back towards the forest, she had heard his hawk cry and watched it fly, am indescribable expression of happiness on her face.

And then the Woad had seen him. She had drawn her bow and aimed an arrow directly at his heart and they had looked at one another. Tristan could still remember the exact shade of her eyes – a green so dark it was nearly black in the dim light; like wet leaves or moss. And then she had lowered her bow and fled, back to the trees. Tristan hadn't waited to see if she decided to shoot him, though, and had fled himself.

This time, however, he didn't expect to see her. He hoped that their last encounter – when she had foolishly entered the fort and stolen his knife – would have scared her away, but he doubted it. After all, she had left him lying on the floor – not quite the image to inspire fear or respect in an adversary.

But was she an adversary? Of course she was – what was he thinking? She was a Woad; it was Tristan's job to kill her. But she hadn't harmed him – in fact, she _could_ have killed him and didn't. And that was what had caused him trouble during their second encounter. She had played her only card, being the fact that she hadn't killed him when she had the chance, and he had hesitated. Of course she had taken advantage of the situation. And now she had one of his best knives.

Tristan laughed gruffly and pulled an apple from his pocket. Biting into it, he placed the torch he had been holding into a sconce on the wall beside him, and yawned widely. Sleep had been hard to come by in the last few days. The knights had just returned from a three-week absence, and Lancelot was catching up on all he had missed – primarily Vanora's tap girl Caitrín. And as Tristan's room was, unfortunately, directly opposite Lancelot's, he had to put up with the girl's cries. It was getting to the point where Tristan was willing to sleep in the stables to avoid the whoring knight's nocturnal exploits.

Chewing thoughtfully, Tristan gazed up at the stars. The pinpricks of light were scattered across the sky were bright, but always outshone by the round white moon. This island had beautiful skies, Tristan would admit to that much. Sarmatia's night sky was bleak and cold, always smothered in a layer of cloud. Soon, Tristan would see that sky again – the thought caused a fluttering of anticipation in the pit of his stomach. One year left of service, then the long ride home; a four month journey across the entire breadth of the Roman empire.

_Don't get ahead of yourself, _Tristan warned himself. He knew nothing of what was awaiting him in the coming months. He might not even live to see freedom again – but he put that thought from his head. Sarmatia was waiting for him. He would return.

'The sky is exquisite here,' spoke a voice from behind him. Even before he turned, he knew whom it was.

He regarded the red-haired Woad in silence. She watched him for a few moments, then climbed onto the parapet of the Wall and found a seat there. Slowly, she pulled Tristan's knife from her belt and held it in her hand.

'I won this from you; it is mine to keep. But would you like it returned?'

Tristan scowled and shook his head.

'I didn't expect it back' he stated blankly.

The Woad smiled faintly and replaced the knife. Tristan found himself itching to protect himself. He was sat alone, with only a small dagger in a sheath at his hip. He would feel better with it in his hands, but if he moved to unsheathe it, would she attack?

As if she had heard his thoughts, the Woad spoke again. 'I don't plan to hurt you, stranger-on-the-Wall.'

'That doesn't mean you won't,' Tristan told her, pulling out his knife and resting it on his knees. 'What is it that you want with me?'

The Woad shifted her gaze to the sky. She was silent for a long time.

Tristan sized her up – she was a good half-foot shorter than him, but her shoulders were wide and strong, and he guessed her arm's reach to be further than his. She was wearing clothes typical of other female Woads – a leather vest and breeches – but her feet were bare and dusted with earth. She had also disposed of the bow; two knives were stuck through her belt instead, one of them Tristan's stolen dagger.

'I need to know something of you,' the Woad said suddenly, her dark green eyes still fixed on the heavens above.

Tristan didn't reply. Instead, he ran his fingers along the edge of his knife and turned it over in his palm.

'I need to know,' she continued, 'if you bear Eachna's mark.'

She finally turned to look at him – just in time to see him frown in confusion.

'What is 'Eachna'?' he asked.

The Woad looked at him pityingly, as if his naïveté made him a lesser person, and caused him to lead an unsatisfactory and unfulfilled life. Then her expression smoothed, and was replaced by a look of longing and harmony.

'She is the Goddess, stranger-on-the-Wall. The goddess-in-earth. She brings life to all those who are deserving, and loves all in equal measure. This is Eachna's land; she created it. And she has asked me to request your help.'

'Help?'

'Yes, stranger-on-the-Wall.' The Woad stared at him with a sudden intensity. 'You are to save this land.'

Tristan laughed loudly and stood up, sheathing his dagger. He tossed his apple core over the edge of the Wall and turned to the Woad.

'You speak with riddles and games, Woad. I believe nothing you say.'

She slipped from the parapet and stood before him. Her wide eyes locked onto his, searching him. Then she nodded.

'You will come to me,' she whispered, and turned to leave. Tristan's hand flicked out and grabbed her wrist.

'Why will I?' he demanded, displeased by the woman's attitude and self-assumed omniscience.

'You thirst knowledge,' she replied simply, gazing up at him. 'And you want to know why _I_ come to _you_.'

Tristan laughed again. 'I know why you come to me, Woad. Because you want to die.'

'Stranger-on-the-Wall, you cannot kill me!' the Woad said, smiling widely. 'I am Eachna's spirit, and I cannot be killed.'

She twisted her arm from his grip and strode down the Wall, until her body was enveloped in shadow and Tristan could see her no longer.

He stood on top of the Wall for a long while, not moving from the position she had left him in. And then, slowly, he descended the steps and went back to his rooms. There, Tristan fell into a dreamless sleep. The last thought he remembered was an image – a red-haired Woad, staring up at him, grinning in the face of death.


End file.
